Office Fat

That's right babes, this post is about that all-too-real mythical creature . . . office fat. It is something I had heard about, something I've joked about, and today, something that became all too real to me. Now to back up a sec, I've never had a real office job before this year. Out of college I was a teacher - where I spent my days on my feet, dodging flying books and often dragging kids in the desk out of my classroom when they started to act like little shits - so needless to say, I was babe-a-licious! Then I went back to being a student - running from class to class, late night studying, and a few years with a stomach problem due to stress gave me three more years being babe-dacious and office fat free.

Then came this year . . . for the first time ever I sit in front of a computer all day. Worse yet, my only co-workers are two skinny males who can eat Chipotle and McDonalds and Dunkin' Donuts every day (literally, every single day!). Never to be one to be shown up by boys in eating skills, I often join them. So today, my weeks of sitting in an office chair, calling throwing a football around the office a "work out," and eating like a 25 year old dude finally caught up to me. Myself, Loafers and Wisconsin (the co-workers) walked into the office and were all standing in my office. Loafers and Wisconsin started a debate about something anti-babe, like buttons on their watches, and I went to plug in my phone charger. I hinged at the hips to reach the outlet . . . the convo going on above me sliped into a silent pause . . . and then it happens . . . teeeeeaaaaaaaarrrrrr. Yup, it's my pants - splitting up the seam. The boys polietly looked away while I hustled to the bathroom. I was able to cover it up mostly with my suit jacket for the rest of the day and the co-workers thankfully understand the un-spoken rule to never speak of this incident again.

As for tomorrow morning I will be off to the tailor . . . and maybe the gym. Then again, a little office fat can be babe-a-licious too, right?

You Can Take the Babe Out of the Baberhood...

I left the baberhood this weekend and hit the road to see my family and friends for Thanksgiving. Although the trip was fantastic, I realized that the old adage couldn't be more true: You can take the babe out of the baberhood, but you can't take the baberhood out of the babe.

On the first leg of my trip, I was delighted to learn that I didn't have to make the journey alone. As I was boarding my flight, I heard a familiar voice in front of me. Turns out Nosey and her new mang squeeze (so totally babe) were also eastbound for Turkey Day. After a brief chat I settled into my seat and noticed a little babe, about 12 years old, sitting white-knuckled next to me. Having a babe's intuition I asked if this was her first time flying alone. It was. So, to distract her, I struck up a conversation. We talked about what we were doing for Thanksgiving, the mangs in her class (at school), and the mangs in my class (in life). I offered her one of the magazines I had with me to pass the time, but it wasn't until she flipped to a page featuring Jerry O'Connell in a Speedo did I realize that I'd given her People's "Sexiest Mangs of the Year" issue. Needless to say, I opened up this babe-in-training's eyes to more than just the friendly skies that night.

Fast forward a few hours and I'm stuck smack dab in the midst of an RHS reunion at our favorite local dive. As I was doing my best to catch up with my real friends (numbering approximately 6) and avoid everyone else (numbering approximately 600), a very bombed, much older non-mang with a wedding band approached me (never a good thing unless your name is Wizard LSD). "Is your name Birdie?" he asked, slurring the whole time. "Yes," I replied tentatively. "Did you live in Mill Iron apartments when you were in college?" he asked. "No," I said, realizing this creep knew where I went to school. "Oh," he replied. "Cause I met you at a party there in 2003." Babes. Let this be a lesson. We are just so dang charming with such delightfully good looks that guys we meet at parties will remember us 6 years later. Let's keep this in mind as we tear through the baberhood bars leaving nothing but empty pitchers of beer and broken hearts in our wake.

Fast forward a few more days. Craving some time away from the off-color jokes of my creepy uncle and full-on wrestling matches with my very favorite nieces and nephew, I decided to head back downtown for a few cold beverages. After some Blue Moons and more than one Long Island Iced Tea, my neighborhood friends, my little sis and I called up a cab. As we piled into the mini van and began to head north I had a brilliant idea. "Hang a right!" I yelled and the cab erupted into cheers as the glowing neon of the Taco Bell sign came into view. Thankfully, I know my way around ordering TBell in a cab, but even more thankfully I had just had ANOTHER Taco Bell-in-a-suburban-cab experience just a week earlier in Sammie Sem's hometown. (Not sure if this qualifies as an accomplishment or a major fail.) And although TBell is always a treat, as I sat with my friends in my parents' kitchen eating chalupas and trying on hats (don't ask) I realized that the tacos don't taste nearly as sweet when they're not from the TBell on Addison.

Oh how I missed you, sweet baberhood. It's good to be back.

If only the walls at the baberhood T-Bell could speak...

If there's one thing a babe doesn't know how to do, it's diet on the weekends. AND, if the walls at the local T-Bell could speak, they'd agree with me full-heartedly. Tacos and Emergen-C Vitamin C packets... that's how a recent weekend of mine went. Because, let's be honest, downing an Emergen-C Vitamin C packet the morning after you've indulged in a shitload of tacos (preceded by many alcoholic bevs - the culprit) clearly cancels everything out.

After regrettably - yet lovingly - thinking about my weekend homebase (TB) during the aftermath that was Sunday, I started thinking about all the greatness I've been privy to within the confines of those TB walls.

Policing the border. On-duty cops are often assigned to the baberhood TB in order to keep all those Lakeview hoodlums in check when they're fighting over their crunch wrap supremes. As such, I once saw a cop hurl himself over the counter and start handing out orders to keep the biz moving smoothly. Chi-town's finest to the rescue!

Keep it classy TB. A friend of a friend of a friend - who's a very close friend of mine - once got into an almost brawl at TB over who was the classier broad. Oh, the irony.

So clutch it's scary. A few college boys with deep voices walked into TB one hazy late-morning, and stopped dead in their tracks as they crossed the threshold, shouting "This place is so clutch!" I guess you have to be there for this one, but I'd just like to say: "well played, college boys, well played."

Barefoot and fancy free. If I had a dollar for everytime I've seen a barefoot customer at TB, I'd probably buy TB and put up some signs that said "shoes required." They'll be sorry.

Daytime TB attire. Galoshes, pajamas and dark shades... it's the only way to dine-in.

Who goes to TB for the meat? I'll tell you who does... our own Birdie Seminary's former guest at the house of ill repute. He joined us for a mid-day hungover TB run one time and - I kid you not - proceeded to eat only the meat out of his taco shells. Weird on so many levels.

Halloween at TB. Who knew that Lady Gaga liked TB so much? Respect.

- Sammy Seminary (aspiring health nut)

Babe Quiz

If you see a 50s something woman looking pretty classy, despite the fuck me boots and short skirt, in the elevator in a predominantly oldie apartment building and notice she doesn’t have a ring on, do you:

A) Mean mug her because there’s no excuse for a 50s something woman to be wearing fuck me boots and looking all hot. What does she think she is? 25?

B) Start sweating out of worry and mortification because you can’t get a good look at her through her sunglasses and big blond curly hair over her face, but you’re pretty sure that’s your mom…about to mang jangle with some oldie. FML.

C) Just shake your head and mumble to yourself, “god dang it,” because you realize that MILF is the new neighbor that your mang has been hanging pictures for.

D) Give her props and ask for some tips because you can only hope to be looking like a babe and mang jangling when you’re her age.

--Wizard LSD

Baberhood Tip

If you find yourself at the Big Shitty Tap pre-midnight on a Tuesday, befriend the bartender. Make music requests, as if she is your own personal dj. You'll have a dance party going in no time.

City Babes head to the Country

This weekend, Lady Clifton, Babe Sr., a few guest babes and mangs and I roadtripped it out to the great Hawkeye state for some good, clean Midwestern fun. We planned to stay with a friend of Sr.'s (Farmer Babe) who may or may not live at a boarding school on a farm. Lady and I left at your standard Friday roadtrip time and drove west. Our car was loaded down with an air mattress and bedding for eight, just in case. So the sherpas forged ahead, with great excitement and tunes ablarin'. Once we got out of the urban jungle and into the fields, we stopped for food at the only rest stop for miles. During our luxurious dinner in the "picnic area" (food court-style tables in a cafeteria overlooking the highway), we heard from Sr. that her car was running an hour behind. Well. Might as well have some ice cream and play some arcade games at the rest stop, Lady and I decided. Sorry babes, we really tried to bring back souvenirs, but "the Claw" is just too dang difficult.

After killing an hour (no joke), we hit the road again. And after getting a little lost in the cornfields in the dark without a GPS, we actually found the farm. Farmer Babe was still out raging, but she told us which rooms to claim in the guest house. She also told us to be quiet because there were a Grandma and Grandpa staying in one of the rooms, and to not sleep in the biggest room because that was set aside for Grandma, "for when Grandpa starts snoring too loudly". Ok, that leaves the two smallest rooms, both of which were infested with ladybugs. None of the babes had a problem with these innocent little creatures, but the mangs sure freaked out and insisted on killing each and every one before going to sleep.

In the morning we had your standard tailgate and gameday experience, except with a devastating defeat and a stadium full of stunned fans. But we sucked it up and went downtown afterward to enjoy the college town experience, drinking beers outside on an unseasonably warm day.

After a while, we ventured into one of your not-so-classy joints on campus, where we witnessed a really intense game of Country vs. City flip cup. The scene was described by some as a train wreck, and more of a shit-show by others. Farmer Babe was hit on by a married friend-of-a-friend that kept asking if she was a hippie, and tried to provoke her by saying "McCain" really loudly in her face. After getting no response, he gave up and flashed a drunken peace sign while muttering "Peace and love....peace and love....", and ending it with a compliment: "You have really nice teeth." We heard later that his wife was not pleased when he got home, rang the doorbell and promptly fell off the porch just as she was opening the door.

After a long day away, it was time to head back to the farm. As we drove down the gravel road, we quickly realized that something had changed while we were gone. The wind had shifted or the field had been plowed, because suddenly the smell of manure was overtaking our nostrils. Lady and I sat in the car with the windows rolled up, breathing through our mouths, unsure what to do next. Once we got out of the car, the stench was overwhelming. We ran to the building like a stink bomb had gone off and we had to take cover. Farmer Babe casually strolled along, wondering what we were freaking out about: "You babes know that this is a FARM, right??"

Needless to say, these city babes were happy to drive away from the wide open spaces of manure and get back to our smoggy urban paradise. The baberhood has never looked so clean or smelled so fresh. It's good to be home.

Yours truly,
Goldie Wilton

So last Saturday, I went to a wedding. One of those weddings where if you're single you don't get to bring a guest. First of all it started at 12pm, the reception at 2pm. Odd timing if you ask me and so I went to get a drink even though it was in the broad daylight and then saw...duh duh duh...the cash bar. After paying $6 for my Cosmo, I went to find my table and found that it was in the far corner of the room. Like the furthest you could get from the wedding party. At my table was myself, one guy, and 8 other women. Yes, eight. And at the next closest table there were relatives, I'm assuming- all single and male, with an average median age of 14. After the meal came the dancing which included, no joke, the Macarena. And boy did I shake it. Needless to say, the highlight of the occasion was the cake, as it was the richest, chocolateyist cheesecake I've had in a while. So cheers to the babes out there, surviving weddings, breaking hearts, and taking names. Its about time we get the party started and celebrated ourselves, ladies!

Babe Sr.